


Imaginary

by pippen2112



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternative Universe - Growing Up, Alternative Universe - Imaginary Friends, F/M, Growing Up, Imaginary Friend!Tony, Imaginary Friends, M/M, POV First Person, excessive use of the word "fuck", foiled dub/con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:36:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6666166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life as an imaginary friend hasn't been easy for Tony.  After sixteen years, he still hasn't made much leeway with Steve, a shy bookworm-turned-social-vigilante who dreamed Tony into existence at age six.  That doesn't surprise any of the other imaginaries Tony's run into along the way, what with Tony's foul mouth, bad timing, and general lack of tact.  So the one time Tony makes an off-handed comment about Steve asking out the girl who lives in 28B, he doesn't actually expect that Steve will follow through with it.  Faced with a long history of bad choices and poor decisions, Tony comes to understand why he's held onto Steve for so long and exactly what he must do to help his kid.<br/><i>I’m not a good person.  Let’s get that out of the way right now so no one’s laboring under any illusions.  I used to think I might be capable of goodness, but that went out the window really quick.  No, I don’t punch babies or anything like that, but I’m not blind enough (or dumb enough) to pretend I’m better than I am.  Being an imaginary friend, you’re not supposed to care about yourself.  Well, looks like I fucked that one up.  (I have enough self-awareness to know that without a doubt.  Make of that what you will.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Imaginary

**Author's Note:**

> (See end for spoiler free "foiled dub/con" tag explanation)
> 
> This story began three and a half years ago during my first foray into writing for the romance genre. During editing of my early drafts, I discovered my POV character sounded remarkably like Robert Downey, Jr as I reread the story. To my dismay, the original story was not accepted; heartbroken, I cast the story into the depths of my hard drive, never to be seen or heard from again.
> 
> Earlier this year, I was looking through my old drafts and came back to "Imaginary." Rereading it, I found there were several issues with the original story, but I still loved the voice and the overall character arc even though I couldn't figure out how to salvage this story for commercial markets. So, I decided, "What the hell? Let's make this a Stony fanfic."
> 
> This story is wildly different than most of the other fics I've written and posted to AO3 (new pairing, new genre, etc.) I freely admit, I don't have high expectations for this story. I know First Person POVs are frequently passed over (I'm guilty of this myself), but sentimental old me couldn't abandon this narrative voice. To those of you brave enough to venture down this particular rabbit hole, thank you and enjoy!

Imaginary

 

I’m not a good person.  Let’s get that out of the way right now so no one’s laboring under any illusions.  I used to think I might be capable of goodness, but that went out the window really quick.  No, I don’t punch babies or anything like that, but I’m not blind enough (or dumb enough) to pretend I’m better than I am.  Being an imaginary friend, you’re not supposed to care about yourself.  Well, looks like I fucked that one up.  (I have enough self-awareness to know that without a doubt.  Make of that what you will.)

 

I know you’re thinking “imaginary friends don’t exist.”  Well, tell that to the kid who dreamed me up sixteen years ago on one particular dark and stormy night.  Tell that kid I’m not real, and you’d find yourself face to face with a toe-headed mess of snot, tears, and hysterics.  It’s not a fun clean up, let me say, but it was always nice having someone defend your existence to the unimaginative grown-up population.  But after sixteen years of push-and-pull interactions, of one-sided conversations, of snide comments and too few gestures, Steve still hasn’t moved on and outgrown me.  The fucker.

 

He’s out tonight on a date.  Left twenty minutes ago and didn’t turn off the TV, thank God.  TBS... eh, I’ll take whatever sappy holiday special I’m given and hope Steve gets back before an original show starts.  Two weeks 'til Christmas, and he’s out with the girl from across the hall, 28B, with a disgustingly common name: Susan, or Sarah, or Shirley.  Fuck it, I don’t know, but it’s something that starts with an “S.”  Still, you gotta hand it to him, the girl’s cute.  Blonde hair, cute smile, small tits.  Well, not small.  Moderate.  Which is fine, if you’re into that.  Huh.  28B.  I’d bet that’s her bra size.  What are the odds?  Life is just full of fucking coincidences. 

 

For her sake, I hope she likes the sound of her own voice.  For his sake, I hope it’s not too shrill.

 

Don't get me wrong.  Steve's a good kid.  Once he grew outta the shrink-into-the-wallpaper phase, he went full social vigilante through high school.  He's mellowed out since starting college.  Decent with people who aren't five kinds of stupid.  Just keeps to himself mostly.  Well, himself and me, I suppose.  And don't get me wrong, it's been a good life thus far.  Satellite TV, wireless internet, online porn.  What more could a guy ask for?

 

But the fact of the matter remains:  I was supposed to fade well before Steve entered middle school, much less hit puberty, learned how to drive, and got three years into an art history and architecture double major.  Yeah... so much for that plan....

 

I slouch farther into the couch, eyes on the idiot box.  Ah, sitcoms.  America’s lifeblood.  Or America’s curse.  Take your pick, I’ve heard it both ways.  Hell, I’ve seen sitcoms pervert expectations about reality.  You expect that in the end, the guy will get the girl, the best friends will snark at each other, and every joke will play out.  That’s the way things go in fiction.  The story builds, the tension breaks, and the happily-ever-after strikes.  They forget to tell you that life goes on for everyone, even the best friend.  Life goes on, but sometimes, on those rare, perfect moments, you get in the zinger you’ve built toward.  Sometimes, you’re rewarded for your persistence. 

 

Most of the time, though, that’s one big crock of shit.

 

Being the best friend sucks, especially when you don't even exist.  I mean, from what I’ve heard through the grapevine, being an imaginary friend isn’t rocket science.  You talk to the kid when he’s lonely, or scared, and just be there when he needs you.  Or she.  At some point, they stop needing you, or they get bored of you, or they just forget.  They move forward, we fade, life goes on.  Too bad no one told Steve that.

 

A key turns in the lock.  Speak of the devil!  Forty-five minute date.  That's... impressive, actually.  Better than the last one; he didn't even make it out the door when the busty bimbo in his Shakespeare class invited him to the extra-credit play and dinner afterwards.  That afternoon, I'd been watching TV while Steve doodled in the corner of his history notes.

 

_"Your date thing's at seven?" I asked._

_"It's not a date."_

_I rolled my eyes.  "Is it just the two of you?"_

_He nods, focused on his notes._

_"Are you going to dinner afterward?"_

_Steve nodded, slower this time._

_"That's a date.  Even I know that."_

_Right on cue, the laugh track rolled over some god-awful pun.  I glanced over at Steve.  He gaped at a spot on the opposite wall, shoulders tense and jaw slackened in horror._

_My throat tightened, but I swallowed past it.  "You look a little green."_

_Steve's brow knitted.  Sad, confused little panda._

_I threw him a bone.  "Looks like the tuna you had for lunch isn't sitting well.  Like you're about to hurl."_

_Steve's jaw clenched for a minute before he sighed and dug his cell phone outta his pocket.  He typed a message quickly, then turned back to his notes.  A slick feeling coiled in my gut.  I ignored it.  I'm great at ignoring things._

 

All in all, it was probably for the best.  In class the next week, Busty had already turned her attention on some other sap.  Knew she looked like the love-'em-and-leave-'em type.

 

I stretch out across the couch, one foot resting on the coffee table, arms slung over the back of the sofa.  Yes, it’s the only seat in the small, one-bedroom apartment.  Yes, I am taking up seventy-nine percent of the sofa.

 

(Yes, I am an asshole, thank you very much.  Yes, you may shove that in your pipe and smoke it.)

 

But Steve doesn’t automatically open the door and slip inside.  He lingers outside.  In the hallway.  I saunter into the kitchen, nearer to the door.  Voices.  Hushed words.  A laugh.  Steve’s laugh.  Followed by 28B’s laugh.  She made him laugh.  She’s funny.  Fuck.  Steve’s lingering in the fucking hallway with his fucking neighbor, and she’s making him laugh.

 

A few minutes later, the lock clicks, and the door squeaks open, and Steve stands in the doorway watching 28B make her way into her own apartment before setting inside and locking the deadbolt behind him.  He leans back against the door, shadows of a grin clinging to his mouth.

 

“Good date?” I ask quickly, not looking at him from my perch on the kitchen counter.  The Formica should feel cool and rough under my fingertips, but I don’t feel it; it just feels like a solid non-descript, room temperature presence entirely unaffected by my non-existence. 

 

(The non-touch is the worst part.)

 

Silence answers me.  I assume he’s shrugged.  It’s the most common response in his arsenal.

 

“Sheryl seems nice.”

 

“Sharon.  And yeah,” Steve murmurs, “she's pretty cool.”

 

I hum noncommittally before Steve starts muttering something else.  Inside, though, I bow for my standing ovation.  _Yes, thank you all for your support.  I knew her names started with an "S."  I'll take visitors and well-wishers at the stage door after the show._

 

When I look back, Steve's staring at me expectantly.  My mouth pinches tight, my brow wrinkling.  "I miss something?"

 

Steve’s head hangs forward and his shoulders slump.  Wrong answer.

 

“She’s coming over tomorrow to watch _Nightmare Before Christmas_ ,” Steve mutters as he strides off toward his bedroom and shuts the door silently behind him.  “Please don’t make me regret this,” he continues calmly, his voice muted by the wall.

 

The apartment suddenly quiets.  Well, that went well... _And_ I have to endure 28B tomorrow.  Great.

 

Something slick coils in my gut, tenses, and slithers away to the back of my spine.  My face flushes, but I ignore it as I wait for the door to re-open.

 

(Being the best friend five hundred percent sucks.)

 

 

#

_I don't remember the last five seconds.  I wasn't. Then I was.  I don’t know why._

_It's dark here, wherever here is.  There's some sound outside, rhythmless pattering on the walls.  I look down and see the faint outline of my feet.  Where's that light coming from? I reach forward and touch something cold, round and smooth: a handle.  A door.  I open the door slowly and step outside._

_The room is small, neat and orderly.  Rain splatters against the window on my left.  A nearly ordered bookshelf stands to my right, though only one shelf holds children's books.  Against the far wall, there's a small, unmade bed covered with a lumpy, old quilt._

_Lightning cracks accidents sky.  In the distance, a huge boom shakes the walls: thunder.  I stumble backward and swallow.  My hands clench.  I don't like thunder._

_How can you not like something you've never experienced before?_

_I hear a soft whimper, and I turn toward the bed.  Another flash of lightning.  Another burst of thunder. Another soft cry.  I step across the creaky floorboards and crane my head.  Now, I see a boy nestled in the pile of blankets on the bed, pressing his face into his pillow to quiet his sobs._

_I don't understand this.  Why is he alone?  Why is no one here to help him?  Why does my chest tighten and why do my eyes water?  Why am I here?_

_Before I realize it, I’m sitting next to him on the bed.  My hand stretches out and touches his shoulder.  He doesn’t react to the touch.  He only sobs more.  Why doesn’t he know I’m here?  Why can’t I help him?_

 

 

#

 

Kindergarten.  Most people don’t have a conscious memory of it.  You know it happened, because you’ve seen the photographs your parents took or the creepy little art projects they saved that you know only the six-year-old-bag-of-snot version of your could have crafted.  Yeah, most people are lucky.  Imaginary friends, not so much.

 

A kindergarten classroom is like Mecca for the average imaginary friend, where each of us inevitably journey in effort to help our wayward charges.  I know it sounds like bullshit, ten-plus little snot-heads crammed into a pint-sized classroom with their dreamed-up friends in tow, but it happens.  It’s a good thing kids don’t see each other’s imaginary friends right off the bat (once you’ve been introduced, it’s a whole different problem) because some are just weird.  There was one kid whose imaginary friend, Nick, had walrus tusks.  I shit you not.  Honest to God walrus tusks and purple hair.  Poor Nick.  It’s not like he got to choose his shape or anything.  We’re stuck in whatever form the kid dreams up until such a time as said kid changes his or her mind. 

 

I got off lucky.  Steve dreamed me outta he pages of a comic book, and I've been relatively unchanged throughout my tenure (though there was a week and a half when I had boobs; Steve will deny it to the day he dies, but I had to learn how to balance with those hefty honkers, and my balance hasn’t been the same since, so I would know).  Couldn't tell you why he kept me as I was.  I'm fairly certain a forty-something, foul-mouthed, would-be-alcoholic was not what he expected.  But after that painfully awkward first night, I don't think he's had any expectations of me since.

 

Because how on earth do you comfort a kid you’ve never met before?  How do you do it? The concept totally escapes me.  I mean, now I know that you give them a hug and tell them it’s gonna be okay, but back them, well, I was something most adults call a jackass.  All I could do was stare at those baby blue eyes peeking out from under his comforter while lightning flashed white across the skies and thunder shook the floorboards.  I was...paralyzed.

 

(And before you say it, yes, I'm an emotionally-constipated jackass.  Always have been; always will be.  Nowadays, I’m just better at hiding it.)

 

Kindergarten just... it still gives me the willies, and I slept through most of it.  I don’t know how other imaginaries do it, particularly when your kid is so painfully shy that he freezes up whenever someone so much as looks at him, much less asks him a question.

 

One day at recess while Steve minded his own business reading on the swings, a gravel pebble whizzed in out of nowhere and popped him in the chest.  “Hey,” call the shooter, a tow-headed trouble-maker.

 

Steve looked up from his book with wide, fearful eyes.  His shoulders hunched.  He held his book like a shield in front of his chest.

 

The kid smiled.  “We’re playing tag.  Wanna play?”

 

I could smell the trap on that one.  Aside from the fact that I’d seen this kid pull the same con a hundred times over on his unsuspecting classmates, that kid had a the wicked gleam in his eyes.  From his perch on the swing, Steve gave me a half-pleading look.  And I...well, I may or may not have looked resolutely at my feet. 

 

(Because honestly, who wants their kid taking advice from me?  That’s right, I thought not.)

 

Steve closed his book and slowly rose to his feet.  “Okay,” he mumbled.

 

The kid smirked, tapped Steve on the shoulder, and bolted off shouting “Tag, you’re it!” in his wake.

 

Steve hung his head for a moment before running off after the kid.  I wasn’t sure whether to be happy about that a little bit peeved that he was leaving me alone.

 

“You let him walk into that one.”

 

I flailed at that (because even if imaginary friends can see each other, we don’t really talk to one another unless our respective kids are playing). I turned in my swing to see a sandy-haired, pizza-faced, Hobbit-sized pre-teen standing at attention about three feet from me.  He wasn’t looking at me though; he was staring after the blonde kid who’d tagged Steve into the game.

 

“Your point being?”  I asked, shuffling my feet into the dusty gravel.

 

Pizza-face shrugged.  “Doesn’t seem very kind of you.”

 

I shifted my gaze back to the playground.  Steve was running hard, chasing after anyone who ran from him like an overactive sheepdog in a skittish herd.  “Kid’s gotta learn to stand on his own feet,” I replied.  “Can’t coddle them forever.”

 

“How long have you been with him?” 

 

“Three months.”

 

Pizza-face’s brow furrowed.

 

“What?”  I asked staring blankly at him.

 

Neither his stance nor his eyes shifted.  His stillness kinda pissed me off.

 

“Just seems like a long time to go without establishing a rapport with him, that’s all.”

 

“Your kid knows the word “rapport”?”  Honestly, that was a little bit impressive.

 

“Clint’s on an advanced learning track, much to his chagrin,” Pizza-face commented, nodding after the tow-headed kid.  “He’s got douche bags for parents.”

 

My eyebrows rose to almost my hairline.  In my three months of existence, I’d never heard that word before.  It felt right on my tongue when I quietly murmured it.  Color me impressed.

 

“How long have you been with Sneaky McTrickster?” I asked for lack of a better question.

 

Pizza-face didn’t bat an eye at that one.  “Two weeks.”

 

I snorted.  It was a knee-jerk reaction.  Totally unavoidable.  The slobber, on the other hand, I could have done without.

 

“And you chastise me about lack-of-rapport?  You’ve got some stones, Pizza-face.”

 

“Coulson,” he replied blandly.  “My name’s Coulson.”

 

I nodded quietly.  “I use the word chastise, and you choose to correct me?”

 

“You’re kid’s reading on his own,” Coulson quipped.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you could use all forms of “there” correctly.”

 

I smiled.  “I like you, Coulson.  You can stay.”

 

The preteen just barely grinned.  “Like you could make me leave.”

 

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, as they say.  Though not really between our kids.  Steve was a shy little stick of a boy who spend lunch and recess reading third grade level books and disappearing into the swing set.  And Clint, that boy was coo-coo for Coco Puffs, three fries short of a Happy Meal, bat-shit-loco.  He ate glue, pulled pigtails, and spent more time in the principal's office than out.  I don't know how the kid wasn't expelled.

 

Still, somehow Coulson managed to keep Clint just this side of some ever-changing line that no one else could perceive.  Coulson was an odd duck, a twelve-years-old who wouldn’t pass the “you must be this tall to ride this ride” test at most roller coasters.  He held himself like a staunch military commander in kid-form with a hint of a Napoleon complex that shone through on Clint’s worse days.  Still, Coulson kept a freakishly tight leash on that kid, and for the most part, it seemed to be working for the both of them.

 

I asked him about it once, while the kids were at recess.  I sat in the patchy shade of a mesquite tree, peeling imaginary seeds from their starchy pods to pass the time.  Coulson stood at the edge of the shade, hands clasped behind his back, keeping a watchful eye on his kid.

    

“How’d you whip Clint into shape?  The kid was like a bat outta hell before you got here.”

    

“I gave him what he needed,” Coulson replied matter-of-factly.

    

“What’s that?  A friend?”

 

Coulson turned and approached me.  For a short twelve-year-old, he stood right at my eyelevel.  It was easy to forget that Coulson fit in this scenario even less than I did.  I was a full-grown, loud-mouth, would-be alcoholic (if only imaginary alcohol had any inebriating effect) who slept through Steve’s classes and usually played harder at recess than he did.  Coulson was an aged, commanding presence wrapped in a three-foot-six package. 

 

I once called him a Hobbit to his face; he promptly kicked my ass.  I didn’t cross Coulson again after that.

    

“No, Clint’s got friends running out his ears,” Coulson commented.  “What he needs is a firm hand.”

    

“So, discipline,” I murmured as a slick, oily feeling coiled in my gut.

    

“No,” Coulson smiled.  “You beat a wild horse, it’ll run.  You saddle said horse, it’ll buck until it breaks.  In my experience, people are no different.”

    

I couldn’t help laughing at that.  “You don’t even exist.  How much experience have you had with people?”

    

Coulson shrugged.  “Enough, I suppose.  Enough to know that without guidance, people are more likely to run into friendly fire than make it out alive.”

 

Coulson was a paragon of efficiency.  Six months later, on the first day of first grade, was the last time I saw him.

 

“I think I’m done,” he muttered calmly one day during lunch. 

 

Steve sat across the room at one the miniature round lunch table, thoroughly engrossed in his book.  Clint ate with his fellow pranksters at the teacher’s table though his visits there were becoming less and less frequent.  Coulson and I were somewhere in the between them, leaning against the back wall with the other imaginaries.  Today, Poor Tom was sporting an elephant’s trunk to go with his tusks.  And two tails.  Poor Tom.  On the plus side, he did have an insta-chair everywhere he went.

 

“Wow,” I murmured.  “That’s something.  How do you know?”

 

Coulson shrugged.  “Just a feeling.  It’s like an itch at the base of my spine.”

 

“I think most people refer to that as arousal,” I replied.

 

Coulson’s eyes drifted to the side, and his head hung slightly.  It was the closest thing to an eye-roll I ever got from him.  I considered that a win.

 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he said sternly.  “There’s no shame in loving your kid.  That’s our job after all.  Help them find what they can’t see for themselves.  Show them goodness.  All that jazz.”

 

The oily feeling returned full force.  It slithered in my belly and triggered my gag reflex twice in a matter of seconds.  I gritted my teeth, balled my fists, and pushed the feeling away.

 

I felt Coulson’s gaze on me, but I didn’t turn to meet it. 

 

Across the room, a burly, baby-faced kid kept nudging Steve while he read.  Steve ignored him.  Baby-Face grabbed at Steve's book, but Steve leaned out of reach.  Fed up, Baby-Face turned his attention on a dark-haired boy with his arm in a sling.  Almost at once, Steve's chin jerked forward, his eyes narrowing.

 

_Oh, no.  Steve, don't do it._

 

Baby-Face got in one hard yank on the brunette's sleeve before Steve leapt out of his seat.  He and Baby-Face toppled to the floor, a knot of limbs and shrieks.  My stomach clenched.  _Don't get hurt, don't get hurt, don't get hurt._

 

“You make no sense, Tony,” Coulson said quietly.

 

I blinked away from Steve and found Coulson staring at me.  “Neither do you,” I replied, “but I stopped trying to riddle you out.”

 

Coulson’s brow knitted.  It made him look _way_ too old.  “It’s like you’re not even trying.”

 

I almost winced at that, except I was too distracted by the burning nausea in my gut. 

 

Coulson took that as a sign to keep going.  “You’re supposed to be there for him, but you spend most of your time on the sidelines waiting for him to ask for help.  You’re supposed to protect him, but you leave him to defend himself.  You’re supposed to give him what he doesn’t know he needs, but you’re too blind or pig-headed to know what to do.  You’re a douche bag,” he said, no malice behind his words, only objectivity. 

 

I kinda hated him for that.  I didn’t say any more.  I didn’t have anything else to say.  Coulson was way too good at dressing me down. 

 

We stood in silence until the end of the period when Clint went off with his class and Steve toddled along after his.  Coulson was gone after that.  Never got a chance to tell him he was right.  Guess I didn't need to.

 

Doesn't make it any better.

 

 

#

 

_A knock-knock sounds from the bedroom door.  The boy flinches and instantly quiets.  "Stevie?" a woman asks, her voice ragged.  "You okay?"_

_For a moment, the boy freezes.  He breathes deeply into his pillow.  "Mom?" he counters, feigning grogginess._

_In the call, the woman's breath hitches.  "Are you alright?"_

_"Yeah, Mom.  Go back to bed."_

_The storm rumbles on outside.  The boy tucks his knees into his chest, covering his head with his arms.  The woman waits a long time before calling tearily, "Sweet dreams, Stevie."_

_A minute passes._

_Lightning flashes. Thunder roars.  The boy muffles another sob._

_Something in my chest throbs.  I lie down beside the boy and wrap him in my arms.  "Shh, it's alright.  You're alright," I murmur into his hair._

_He shakes his head and burrows backward into me.  He whimpers so soft I barely hear it through the rain.  I hold him tighter.  "Easy, it's okay.  What's got you crying?"_

_"Mom," he whispers.  "She's so sad.  I just want her to be happy, and nothing I do helps.  She can't stop crying."_

_"What's got her sad?"_

_"Dad.  He..." he trails off, hiccupping.  "The Army sent a letter.  Dad didn't make it."_

_My voice sticks in my throat.  Jesus, how do you respond to something like that?  Sometimes you can't, so I don't say anything.  I just hold him in the rainy-silence until, hours later, the tears and the shivers stop.  Breathing raspily, he rolls away from me, grabbing some plastic something off the bedside table.  He takes a puff and breathes easier.  When he's finally calm, he looks at me straight on._

_“You’re old,” he says matter-of-factly._

_My brow furrows.  “Am I?”  I don’t understand how I could be.  I don’t feel old._

_The boy nods and touches my face.  “You’ve got hair here.  You must be old.”_

_I touch my jaw line and feel coarse hair mostly on my chin and around my mouth.  “Huh. I don’t remember being old.”_

_“Well, you are,” the boy replied like he doesn’t know what to make of me._

_I shrug.  I don’t have any more answers than he does.  If anything, I feel like I understand less._

_Outside, the rain keeps falling and the thunder keeps booming, but it’s getting quieter.  It’s getting calmer.  The storm is passing... I hope._

 

 

#

 

Steve and I haven’t spoken in a week.  Well, I've talked plenty, but then again, I’ll be talking even after they remove my voice box.  Steve just hasn’t responded.  He sort of stares past me like I’m not there.  I know he can see me though, because he’s going out of his way to avoid me.  Screw him.  He’s got 28B now and doesn’t need me anymore?  I’ve got sitcoms and porn to fill the void.... Alright, it’s the cover of a _Cosmopolitan_ that 28B left here on a previous visit, but at the rate they’re going, it’s the closest thing to porn I’m gonna get.

 

Steve and his oh-so-lovely lady friend have been on three dates so far this week.  For the first, they connected over an entirely non-romantic burger.  For the second, they cuddled on the couch while _Nightmare Before Christmas_ played in the background.  For the third, well... I happened.

    

In my defense, I figured Steve had stopped listening to me, much less caring about what I thought, so if I mouthed off throughout their dinner--they made spaghetti and meatballs together, how domestic--I figured he’d just ignore me like he has all fucking week.   And for the most part, he does ignore me, and every one of my comments bounce off his newly impenetrable shield of calm.  By the time they sit down to their after-dinner entertainment, _Love, Actually_ , I’m out of ammunition. 

    

Honestly, I realize I should have let well enough alone.  I should have gone and hid in the hall closet and buried my head in my hands and waited it out.  I should have faded away slowly and let him forget, if the whole imaginary friend thing happened to work that way.  But, fuck it, when have I ever _not_ responded to a bad situation with passive aggression and an unfailing sense of entitlement.

    

(Yes, I am a bastard.  Yes, I am well aware of that fact.  Yes, you can sue me, but it won’t do you any good.  Not real, remember?)

    

So, I settle for pacing back and forth in front of the television, pausing occasionally to critique some particularly corny dialogue or poor green screen work.  But I keep striding at the same lazy, even pace because what-the-fuck-else am I gonna do with my spare time while I’m stuck third-wheeling a date I desperately don’t wanna be on.

    

Steve stares past me pointedly, his hands balled in his lap.  His jaw line is taut, his cheeks flushed.  Good, he's angry.  Better anger than adamant stoicism because honestly, fuck him if he thinks I'll lay down and disappear.  He's the only thing keeping me from drifting off into whatever Neverland awaits all us failed imaginary friends.

    

28B seems to notice his irritation.  She lays a soft hand on his wrist and brushes her thumb over the skin.  “Something on your mind?” she asks calmly, half-turning toward Steve in her seat.

    

“Yes, Mr. Rogers.  Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” I chide.

    

Steve shakes his head, eyes still fixed on the screen.  28B’s brow furrows, and her mouth draws into a thin line.  Yep, she’s not buying it either.  She might actually be worth keeping around.

    

“Is it something I---“

    

“No,” Steve cuts her off.  “No, it’s not you.  Just a friend being a perpetual ass.”

    

28B nods.  “Yeah, I get that.  I had this friend who did not know how to take a hint.  I always got stuck playing third wheel on her dates, and I swear that she thought my yawns meant ‘Yes, please suck _more_ face in front of your nerdy, insecure friend who is _thoroughly_ enjoying the view of you plastering yourself on this flavor of the week.’”

    

I barely swallow a chuckle at that.  Her comment also rouses a small smile on Steve’s face, but it slips away quickly.  28B turns toward him, fixing her bright eyes on his face.  I do not envy him right now.

    

“Do you wanna talk about your perpetual ass of a friend?”

    

No response.

    

28B’s fingers slide in between Steve’s and she strokes his palm.  Seems oddly intimate for the first week of dating, but I don’t say anything because a) it’s not my place to judge relationship speed and b) Steve’s the only person who will hear me, and he clearly doesn’t give a rat’s ass what I think.  Instead, I slump down the wall across from them and settle in for the evening entertainment.

    

“What’s his name?” 28B asks softly.

    

“Tony,” he murmurs.

    

“And what's Tony done that's eating you?”

    

Steve stares at his lap, feet tapping hurriedly, like he wants to bolt.  He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.  “He's just all over the place.  Like he’s trying so hard to be what everyone expects of him that he doesn’t know who he is.”

    

I’m nodding sympathetically before I can stop myself.  No, that’s not true.  I know who I am.  I do... don't I?

    

“He’s not all bad,” he continues.  “I mean, he’s the one who convinced me to ask you out, so that says something.”

 

It’s true; I did mercilessly chide him about not being a man until he grew some balls and asked her out.  How about them apples?  I’m capable of not being a self-serving asshole.  I’m awesome.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve sighs.  “I’ve known him for forever, but our friendship feels stagnant.”

    

28B cocks her head to the side.  “Like you haven’t changed?”

    

He shakes his head.  “Like _he_ hasn’t changed.”

 

And just like that, the "I'm awesome" vibe gets sucked back to the ether and I'm left hollow and clenching.  I stare at the pretty pair on their not-so-private sofa.  More than anything, I want to snark and scream and cry that I _can't_ change, that I'm here to serve one stupid purpose, that I'm still tethered to the scared six-year-old I held through that dark and stormy night.  If I were anything useful, I'd scream "let me go," but I don't.  I'm not that selfless.

    

(Call me a coward if you want.  It’s not a lie.  I’m scared shitless of the other side.)

    

I don’t have to look to know that 28B is touching Steve’s cheek and pushing his hair out of his face and beaming at him.  But I look anyway, and my gut wrenches at the stunningly sweet sight.  She rests their foreheads together, breathes in his sweet breath, and leans in, and I clench my teeth and watch because I’m one part voyeur, one part masochist, one part seriously fucked up.

    

“Maybe you should stop waiting for him to change.”

    

She gives him his first kiss, a delicate peck on the lips, and I can’t bear it.  I take off down the hall and slip into the bathroom because I can’t open any fucking doors.  I crawl into the still-damp bathtub.  I sit. 

 

I wait.

 

 

#

 

_“Are you Tony?”  I raise an eyebrow at that, unsure what he means.  The boy continues as he rolls over and retrieves a book from the bedside table.  “You look like him, and you sound how I think he sounds.”_

_He holds the book out to me and I turn to see it better.  The cover shows a man in a red and gold suit of armor, his head bare and from the lines of his face, I feel like I recognize him.  But how you can recognize someone you’ve never seen, I don’t know.  I doubt the boy knows any better than I do._

_I flip through the pages and stare at the squiggled lines surrounded by white blobs on the pages next to cartoon drawings.  I don’t understand what is written there, but the pictures tell an interesting story._

_Suddenly, light flashes across the sky, and the boy winces and huddles closer to me.  Thunder booms half a second later, louder than any sound I’ve ever heard.  I wrap my arm around the boy and slowly rub his back.  He doesn’t sob, which is a step forward, but I can feel his shoulders starting to shake.  I don’t want him to cry again._

 

_“Can you read this?”  I ask quickly. I hope it distracts him._

_The boy shakes his head as he buries it in my chest.  "Dad gave it to me before he left.  He thought I might like it." He pauses and breathes deeply to calm himself.  "Mostly I just look at the pictures."_

_I hear the frown in his words, and the tightness in my chest throbs.  He's too young to be so sad.  But he doesn't sound sad.  He sounds worse than sad. He sounds like he's kicked himself for every flaw he's ever had.  He sounds disappointed._

****

 

#

 

If kindergarten is imaginary-friend Mecca, then high school is undoubtedly Hell.  There's no other option.  Anyone who's lived it knows that high school sucks ass.  Bringing an imaginary friend into the equation just maddens an already-needlessly-traumatic period of life.  Bunch of pubescent bags of hormones thrown together in an enclosed space.  That's just one big ticking time bomb.

 

Steve made it out alright as far as I can tell.  Apart from throwing himself under the bus every other week to keep bullies off the backs of meeker kids.  Stupid punk.  At least he had Peggy to keep him outta trouble.

 

I remember the first day of freshman year, wandering through overcrowded halls while Steve plowed ahead, unafraid.  I lingered at the back of Steve's art class while the teacher babbled about the syllabus, drawing assignments, sketch books.  Steve nodded along, doodling in the corners of his papers.  The tension he'd been carrying in his shoulders seeped out through that scribbling ball-point pen.  I hadn't seen him so at ease in a long time.

 

Suddenly, someone nudged my side.  I jerked around to find a red-head in a school girl's uniform propping up the wall beside me.  "Who's your newb?" she asked, her clear green eyes flitting across the students, the corner of her mouth quirked upward.

 

"Do you not grasp the concept of personal space?"

 

She shrugged.  "Not really.  At least, that's what Peg tells me."  She nodded in the direction of the brunette two rows in front of Steve.  She seemed older, more confident, but she too kept doodling through the class introduction.  "Probably for the best," the red-head continued.  "She doesn't know how to ask for help.  So I keep ignoring the concept of distance, or she'd never admit she has needs."

 

I didn't respond.  I mean, what do you say to a girl who lays out her kid's flaws so readily?

 

She extended her hand toward me, still not looking at me.  "Madeline Wazowski.  Peg picked it when she was four.  I prefer Natasha."

 

I glanced between the hand and her bright eyes and back again.  "Tony," I said, keeping my arms firmly crossed over my chest.

 

She poked my shoulder and glanced pointedly at her hand.

 

"I don't shake."

 

Her brow furrowed.

 

"Technically, I don't like being handed things, and a handshake is like being handed an introduction.  So no."

 

"Everyone shakes."

 

"I don't.  Your argument is invalid."

 

Her eyebrow twitched upward.  "You constitute everyone?"

 

"Nope.  Everyone constitutes me.  If one person doesn't shake, then not everyone shakes.  Ergo, your argument is invalid."

 

She stared at me for several minutes.  Maybe sizing up what I had to offer her (not much.)  Maybe judging how much it would take to destroy me (even less.)  I felt like one of those lobsters in the tank at a fancy restaurant; honest to God, she looked ready to boil me alive, slather me with butter, and serve me up with a claw cracker all without batting an eye.

 

But an easy smile spread across her face.  "We should hang out sometime."

 

"Speak for yourself, Ms. Wazowski.  I plan to jump ship at the earliest possible opportunity."

 

"Natasha," she corrected, "and not before I do.  You're not better than me."

 

"Pretty sure since our kids are in high school and still need imaginary friends, neither of us is all that good."

 

She crossed her arms and turned back toward the class.  "Bet you for it."

 

"Like I need the money."

 

"Ten bucks?"

 

"You're on."

 

Natasha was... something else entirely.  You could never get a read on her.  One moment she'd be cool composure, the next she'd lash out fiercer than a wild fire.  She could chatter away a silence or disappear into the stillness, but I could always hear her coming 'cuz she never stopped humming this one melancholic tune.  I asked her its name just once, and she spouted some gibberish which sounded like she'd sucked out all the vowels.

 

Over a year and a half, we developed... well, I wouldn't call it a "friendship."  We were both too sarcastic, too shielded to let the other get close, yet we were the ultimate outcasts in High School Hell: a pair of imaginary friends in a sea of raging hormones.  We didn't belong, but we made it work.

 

Either independently or by association, Peggy and Steve formed a friendship of their own, sketching still life during art class, protecting the unprotected from meatheads and mean girls, even slogging through class work together despite their year difference.  Peggy was good for Steve.  Impassioned enough to fuel Steve's social vigilante-ism.  No nonsense enough to call him on his shit.  Natasha and I used to joke they'd end up married one day, keeping us in tow as their rude, crude, and socially-uninhibited besties.  Whenever I turned a little green around the gills at the prospect, Natasha ribbed me mercilessly.

 

Still, it was good to see Steve open up to some by doing more than calling bullies off color names to distract them away from their prey.  Some days, I'd see him and Peggy in the studio working on some project or another, and he looked happy.  If still skin and bones.

 

Although, I remember one late night sometime sophomore year.  I'd been out on the roof, enjoying the brisk winter wind and generally staying outta Steve's hair.  When I came in, he was slumped face first on his math homework, his t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders.  Tighter than usual.  Holy shit, when did those grow in?  And when did he learn how to grow that smattering of stubble spreading across his jaw?  When did he start growing up, and where the fuck was I when that happened?

 

I tiptoes across the bedroom, stepping over textbooks, art supplies, and dirty clothes.  Steve looked so at ease.  Without thinking, I reached out for his sanding locks.  I just barely grazed the topmost strands before a soft smile curled at the corners of his mouth.  It was... It was...

 

My chest ached.  I wanted... fuck.  I wanted, and I had no damn right wanting.  I snapped my hand back and spent the night on the roof.  If Steve remembered it the next morning, he didn't mention it.

 

(Say what you will, denial may just be my best suit.)

 

If high school is Hell, then prom is La Danza Macabre.  You know, dance of the dead...cause high school is where your dreams go to die... Never mind, I’m not funny at all.

 

For some reason, Steve got wrangled into going with Peggy (God only knows why he accepted).  “Just as friends,” she insisted quickly after proposing the idea.  Her cheeks flushed, but she held her head high.  

 

Natasha snorted at that one. “Aren’t they just a-freakin’-dorable?  I don’t know if I want to wrap them in one of Grandma’s crocheted afghans and send them to bed or smack them for being oblivious,” she commented. 

 

I would have laughed too if my heart didn’t ache the tiniest bit for Peggy’s plight.  “Oblivious?”  I asked quietly.

 

Natasha tossed her freakishly massive curls over her shoulder.  “Those two have been mooning over each other for months.  I think I might  die from all this UST.”

 

I gritted my teeth and looked back at the pair.  Steve was blushing too at this point.  A small smile played across his lips.  Peggy stared ahead resolutely, her spine tensing like she was waiting for a twelve-story wave of disappointment to crash down on her.  Instead, Steve murmured “No, that’s great.  I...I didn’t have plans.”

 

Honestly, my teeth were starting to hurt.  Who the fuck made people this endearingly sweet?  It is so not fair.  Makes all the assholes of the world (i.e. moi) look like...well, assholes. 

 

“Doesn’t it just make you want to puke up sunshine and rainbows and candy hearts?”  Natasha said.

 

I straightened myself and stared at her coolly.  “Whatever could you mean, Ms. Wazowski?”

 

She glowered at me for a moment before her eyebrows raised skeptically, her head cocked slightly to the side.  “Bitch please, you do not have a monopoly on unrequited love.”

 

It took every ounce of willpower to furrow my brow and keep my jaw from dropping.  Seriously, is it that fun calling me on my shit?  Is there some secret imaginary friend betting pool I was never informed of?  I mean, really, can’t a guy have a few inner thoughts and...feelings.  God, I sound like a chick.

 

“Are you high?”  I countered. 

 

Natasha’s brow arched further, threatening to disappear into the ginger line of her bangs.  “Don’t think you’re so special, Tony.  You aren’t the first imaginary to fall for your kid.  It happens more often than anyone likes to let on.”

 

I ducked my head, turned back to Steve and Peggy eating lunch like nothing had happened.  Unlike Natasha and me, those two were content with silence, with unspoken agreements, with companionship.  I couldn't help feeling jealous of them.  Silence gave me too much time to linger on subjects best glanced over.

 

And before I could comprehend it, the fateful Saturday was upon us.  Steve dressed in a borrowed suit.  Peggy wore a dark blue forties-style thing.  They exchanged corsages in Peggy's back yard before she drove them to the school's gymnasium.

 

Prom was unrepentantly cheesy.  After saying a few obligatory hellos, Steve and Peggy stayed cooped up at a table near the back, their fingers itching for pencils and papers.  Natasha was mysteriously absent for most of the night, disappearing for long tracks of time, probably under the bleachers so she could dance to the drivel DJ Jonez spun without me making fun of her.  Still, she'd poke her head back in just frequently enough to remind me I wasn't the only lovesick third wheel on this ride.

 

At some point, Peggy dragged Steve onto the dance floor, mouthing the lyrics and swaying with the beat.  Despite himself, Steve grinned and joined in.  While their horn-dog classmates ground on each other, Peggy and Steve twisted and jived, old souls lost in their own little world.

 

My stomach lurched into my throat.  I instantly understood what Natasha meant about vomiting cuteness; it was hard not to with that pair.  Steve and Peggy just fit together, and it was beautiful.  They were beautiful.

 

I stalked out of the gym, vision blurring.  The too-still too-heavy air hung around me.  I felt trapped by my too-tight skin.  I wrestled off my jacket and slumped on the steps beside a pair of compatible hormones playing tonsil hockey.

 

“Do you mind?  Don’t you have a car or something?” I hissed, knowing they couldn’t hear me.  They just pressed even closer together, mouths moving frantically as copious amounts of saliva dribbled down their chins.  I rolled my eyes.

 

I heard footsteps falter behind me, but I didn’t need to look to know who had followed me out here.  “Can I help you with something, Ms. Wazowski?”

 

Natasha hummed slightly and sauntered up next to me, pressing against my side.  “Well, you know what they say about beating and joining...”

 

Before I could respond, she gripped the back of my head firmly and slipped into my lap.  I flinched away as she leaned forward and twisted my neck so her sloppy kiss landed on my cheek.  She smirked as she shifted down to my neck.

 

“Never figured you for a fighter,” she murmured against my skin.

 

“Never figured you’d follow through,” I grunted.

 

My hands raced to her shoulders.  I shoved.  Hard.

 

She fell back against the sidewalk, her eyes suddenly dark.  She hauled herself back up and rushed at me again.  Her hands grappled for my fly.  I gritted my teeth against the sensation and caught her wrists quickly.

 

“Do you not know what “no” means?” I asked.

 

“You haven’t said no yet,” she retorted sharply.

 

“Consider it said.”

 

She paused at that.  Her eyes narrowed slightly.  Slowly, Natasha pulled away until she stood at the foot of the stairwell.  We stared in silence for a long stretch of time as the tension grew.  Her eyes flitted across my face, questioning every mircoexpression that wrinkled my skin.  My eyes stayed wide, pleading for distance. 

 

Natasha took a half-step forward.  The bitch.  She always knew how to throw me off balance.

 

“I don’t understand,” she said firmly.  “I’m lonely.  You’re lonely.  We’re both suffering from a decade of blue balls.  We have the means and motive to relieve aforementioned blue balls, and no one’s getting hurt.”

 

“No.”

 

“Give me one good reason.”

 

“Because it doesn’t matter,” I murmured.

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“No, it really doesn’t make one shit of a difference how we feel about this,” I snapped.  “We don’t even exist.  It doesn’t matter if we can feel good for a few minutes.  We have one purpose in this world, and every extra second we stay here, we’ve both failed.”

 

My hand curled in the hair at the base of my skull.  I tugged quickly and the jolt of pain pulled me back into the moment and out of the blurry world around me.  “What good is a touch if it’s not real and warm and breathing?  What good is any touch when it’s not the one you want?”

 

Natasha crossed her arms over her chest and looked at her feet.  “Fuck.”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

I felt her eyes boring into my forehead.  I didn’t lift my gaze.

 

“You’re one blind, emotionally-constipated jackass, Tony.  Good luck with that.”

 

“Thank you,” I sighed.  My voice wavered.  “Will that be all, Ms. Wazowski?”

 

“You don’t deserve him.”

 

I stared blankly ahead, looking past Natasha as she wandered away into the night.  The corners of my vision swam.  I bit my tongue.

 

At school on Monday, Natasha was gone.  No goodbye.  No hug.  Not even a "gimme my ten bucks, bitch."  It happened so quickly I barely noticed.  Just one day she was there, and the next, poof.

 

Steve and Peggy lasted until the end of the school year before Peggy's parents got recalled to England.  It hurt to see her go, but it was probably for the best.  She and Steve bonded over a common flaw, a common need for something to cling to outside themselves.  With Natasha gone, it was only a matter of time.

 

Part of me hates Natasha for leaving, just like part of me hates Coulson for doing what I couldn't.  Honestly, it'd be easier to hate them and nothing else, but life's never so simple.

 

For the most part, I just flush with shame when I remember Coulson and Natasha, and my stomach rolls.  I try to laugh it off, but that only works for so long, like a Band-Aid on a broken bone.  I hate it all.  Not knowing what Steve needs.  Not being who he needs.  Not even knowing who or what I am or how to stick to being an imaginary friend.  But most of all, I hate wanting what I'll never get and still doing everything in my power to hold him.

 

Fuck.  Maybe Steve's not the one holding on too tight.

 

#

 

_"I can't read either."_

_The words leave my moth so fast I barely realize I'm saying them.  But I feel his tiny fist loosen around my shirt, so I hold him tighter and keep talking._

_"I really can't."_

_"But you're old," the boy replies.  "All old people know how to read."_

_“Well I don’t.  Just looks like squiggles to me.  Lines and squiggles and gibberish.  Like those things in Egypt.  The... uh...”_

_“Hieroglyphics,” he suggests._

_“Yeah, but those are easier to understand because you can guess what they mean.  The pictures, you know.”_

_The boy nods into my shirt.  The tightness in my chest eases a little bit, and something warm replaces it.  It feels nice, better than I could ever imagine.  How do I describe it?_

_“One day, I’ll learn, though.  I mean, you can only go so far without knowing how to read.  But don’t worry too much.  You’re young.  You’ve got all the time in the world to learn.”_

_It’s easy to keep talking to him.  Easy and pleasant and it just makes every inch of me warm.  I wonder if everyone feels like this, because it’s wonderful to feel so helpful, so needed.  It’s easy to keep talking to him if silence ends in sadness.  It’s the very least I can do._

_The boy looks up at me with teary blue eyes and smiles.  He looks like he’s not used to the stretch of his mouth or the crinkles around his eyes, but he looks so... what’s the word... so... happy._

_One moment there’s warmth in my chest.  The next moment I can’t feel my finger tips or my legs.  What is this feeling?  I don’t like it.  The non-feeling creeps further down my arms and up my chest, and the world around me starts to darken.  It feels like how I was before I woke up in the closet without any memory.  I don’t want that.  I don’t want to go away.  I don’t want to forget._

_I push away from the boy and sit up in the bed.  I’m practically panting, and my palms feel slick.  I won’t do that again.  I won’t go away.  I won’t leave him alone.  He needs me here._

_“Are you okay?” the boy asks meekly._

_I want to look at him, but I stare down at the floor.  It takes away the warmth, but I can feel my fingertips again._

_“Yeah, kid.  I’m fine,” I mutter.  “Everything’s fine.”_

_Something oily coils in my gut.  I don’t like that feeling, but I’d pick it any day if it means staying._

 

 

#

 

I’ve never really been afraid of the dark.  I mean, no one actually likes the dark--anyone who says otherwise is lying.  It’s like being claustro-agora-phobic.  Like everything is too close and too far away, too present and too detached.  It’s a fucking nightmare, that’s what the dark is.  It’s everything you hate.  And right now, the dark is full of my own stupid, rhythm-less thoughts and pointless, half-hearted gestured.  It’s really pathetic when the thing you hate and fear the most is yourself.  I mean, what kind of self-loathing does it take to get that fucked up?  Well... I guess we’ve got our answer. 

 

What day is it? Hell if I know.  I can hear a party downstairs, the floors vibrating with the heavy thump of the bass, the stench of booze and sweat seeping up into Steve’s apartment, the raucous roar of drunken co-eds.  Shit, what day is it?  What year is it?  How long have I been in this fucking closet waiting to disappear?  I don’t even know. 

 

Steve’s not here.  He left earlier; I heard the door slam shut behind him and his key scraping in the lock.  I wonder what plans he and 28B have cooked up.  I hear them a lot. They hang out here, mostly watching movies, necking on the couch, and other such shit.  Steve must think I don’t hear, but I do.  I’m not gone yet.  Unfortunately.

 

Yeah, I’m still here for some fucking joke of the reason, and the universe won’t clue me in on the punch line.  Which makes sense.  I couldn’t leave when I desperately wanted to be out of here when Steve’s balls dropped and he learned how to covertly gawk at girl’s breasts.  I couldn’t leave when he desperately wanted me gone as he bit the inside of his mouth to keep from sobbing out his loneliness.  I couldn’t leave when we both needed a break, when he fled to a big city university far away from Nowheresville, USA and I followed along like a puppy that didn’t know what else to do. 

 

I wonder if the semester ended started yet, if there’s snow covering this concrete jungle of an apartment complex, if his finals are more challenging than he expected.  Not that it matters, really.  Because it doesn’t.  I’ll be gone sooner than later so it doesn’t matter, so long as Steve has moved on.  And he’s made no signal that he’s anything sort of apathetic to my existence. 

 

Right about now, half a bottle of bourbon sounds like just the right kind of awful.  I miss alcohol which is just fucked up.  How can you miss something you’ve never had?  How does that work?  I got the short end of the whole being-an-imaginary-friend schtick.   I mean, Steve’s not a drinker, but he’s always kept a bottle around for nights when he needs to de-stress.  It sucks having the one thing you want dangled in front of you.

 

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring into the dark crease between two folded bed sheets when I hear someone fumbling with the lock.  Perfect, some drunk guy who’s at the wrong door.  Screw him.  I’m busy.

 

I could snort that if I weren’t, you know, stuck in a vicious circle of self-abuse.  No, I’m not depressed.  I’m too funny to be depressed.  I can find the humor in anything.  Or the irony.  I forget which is which.  Is it funny that I’m the world’s worst imaginary friend who can’t fade away into the nothingness I deserve?  Is it ironic that I’m that guy who can’t fucking help the best person in my life, that if I could help him then maybe, just maybe, I might actually be worth saving?  Fuck it.  Why can’t I just be forgotten?  There’s nothing about me worth remembering.

 

The front door’s hinges squeak.  Heavy footsteps pound toward Steve’s door.  Robbers.  Fan-fucking-tastic.  Just what I need to make this day even better.  Fuck them.  Fuck everyone. 

 

The footsteps falter halfway toward the door, but they begin again with renewed fervor, racing toward me. 

 

The door’s thrown open.  A man in a party hat stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the kitchen lights.  I squint, nearly blinded.  What fucking day is it?  And when did that light get so bright?

 

My eyes take half a moment to refocus.  When they do, I can see the clear line across the shoulders, the tilted head, the unsteady balance on knobby legs.  Steve. 

 

“What do you want?”  Most of me really doesn’t want to know the answer to that question, but honestly I have nothing else to say to him.  I doubt he has anything of merit to say to me.

 

Steve gives a half shrug and slumps down in the doorway.  He rests in feet on the opposite side of the frame and takes a swig from the bottle.  I can smell the fumes from here.  Alcohol.  The bastard.  He stares at his knees, his face only half lit by the hall light.  His mouth is subtly quirked downward. 

 

“You’re one stupid, blind fucker.  Have I ever told you that?”

 

My brow furrows at that one.  Steve’s not a swear-er.  Sure, he knows every curse word a twenty-one year old should know by that stage in the game (I wouldn’t be saying them if he didn’t know them), but he’s not like me.  He’s quiet and careful with what he says.  With him, every word matters.  Unlike me.

 

“I’ll take your silence as a no.  Not surprised.  But you are.”  He wets his gullet with more liquor.  “You are, shit, I don’t even know.  It’s like you don’t want anyone to give you a chance.”

 

“That’s bullshit,” I retort.

 

Steve snorts.  “Yeah... sure....”

 

“I do want a chance.”

 

“You don’t act like it.  You’re the most disagreeable person I’ve ever met.”

 

I roll my eyes and stare into the back of the closet.  “You’re welcome.”

 

Steve shakes his head.  “I’m not thanking you, dipshit.  I mean, you’re fucking impossible.  You push, and push, and push until someone grows the stones to push you back.”

 

For the first time in however long it’s been, Steve looks at me.  He stares at me with his stern brown eyes and questioningly cocks his head at me.  I want to look back so badly.  My gut clenches with the need to see him again, but that somehow strengthens my resolve.  God, I am fucking weak.

 

“What did you expect?” I reply meekly.  “You never gave me boundaries.  You never pushed back.”

 

“Because you never cared that I did.”

 

I stand and step over him.  Everything’s too close in this damn apartment.  I need to be away from here.  I need the distance.  I need to go.

 

The front door’s still open even though it’s God-knows how late.  Fuck it.  I don’t care. 

 

Before the thoughts cross my mind, I’m running out onto the balcony.  Down the stairs.  Past drunkards toting beer cans and shouting about finding a kisser.  Across the dimly lit parking lot.  Into the tree line.

 

It’s only when I collapse against a pine tree that I hear the footfalls cracking dried leaves and pine needles.  My heartbeat flutters.  Shit.  Now he gets clingy?  For fucks sake.

 

“Go away.”

 

The footsteps stop.  Steve’s breath eases.  My hands clench.

 

“No.”

 

The corners of my vision blur.  I squeeze my eyes closed.  No more.

 

“Please.” The words sound too pathetically small to be mine.

 

“You’re my friend, Tony.  Why should I?”

 

I choke on the broken sound that claws at my throat.  “Why should you?  Why the fuck shouldn’t you?”  I ask before I can stop myself.  “Fuck, you shouldn’t even see me as a friend.  I’m just an annoying trick your mind’s playing on you.”

 

Twigs snap as he slowly advances toward me.  “You’re more than that.”

 

“No, I’m not.  You might think that, but I can prove that I’m not.  I’m not worth the time it took to dream me up.  I want to be better, but I can’t be.  It’s not in my fucking nature to change.  I should be more for you.  I should be a friend you deserve, not just a bag full of unsolvable issues that can never be dealt with.  Fuck!”

 

My knees give way.  My back slips down the tree.  My head falls forward into my hands. 

 

“I’m not real,” I hiss through clenched teeth as my blackened vision swirls and distorts.  “I don’t matter.”

 

The wind whistles through the treetops, but I don’t feel its icy sting on my cheeks.  The pine needles beneath my feet are dry and cracking, but I don’t break them with my steps.  The tears in my eyes well at the corners, but I don’t feel their warmth there.  Instead, I flex my hands against my legs, and I hear the slow chiming of a clock somewhere in the distance.  What day is it?  What time is it?  I don’t even know. 

 

A gentle hand touches the nape of my neck and I freeze.  I feel the warm, soft skin slide into my hairline and grip the wayward curls. I feel hot breath against my forehead and I feel the words before Steve says anything.

 

“You matter to me.”

 

Steve presses a chaste kiss to my temple, and at once, I feel my chest contract as a sob pushes through my body.  My frame shakes.  I try to curl into a ball, but Steve’s grip on me remains steady.  His other arm wraps around my chest and presses me to him.  Warm tears slip from my lashes. 

 

Steve repeats the words like they’re some ancient prayer, and he rocks me as I gasp and cry as warmth encompasses my being.  I feel a presence in my chest thumping erratically, but slowly, the warmth and the pressure fall into sync with my heartbeat. 

 

I can hear heavy gongs from the bell tower.  “What day is it?”  I finally ask once my voice has come back to me.  My body aches from the tremors and the alien presence building in my chest.

 

Steve smiles against my brow.  “Almost the new year.”

 

My throat tightens.  “Shouldn’t you be with Sharon?  Didn’t you have plans?  You know, kissing, champagne, all that jazz.”

 

Steve shakes his head and his arms tighten around me.  “Something more important came up.”

 

The chiming stops and the solitary gong begins.

 

“You should find her.  It’s bad luck, or some such shit.”

 

Steve chuckles.  “You need it more than her.”

 

Another tear wells in my eye.  I don’t bother wiping it.  I don’t have much dignity left to lose.

 

When the final chime sounds, Steve presses his lips to mine.  For half a second, I feel the sensations swarm in my belly, I feel the emotions constrict in my chest, I feel...whole.

 

(Fuck... I feel loved.)

 

And a moment later, I feel everything crack.  I’m falling away into the emptiness and the darkness and the cold.  I’m almost lost in the abyss when two simple words float down after me.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Whatever’s left of me at that point, I don’t know.  I couldn’t give it a name or a description or a title.  Whatever’s left of me at that point, though, smiles.

 

Whatever comes next, after fading, can’t take that away.  Never.

**Author's Note:**

> The "foiled dub/con" tag refers to a scene toward the end where Character A climbs on top of and starts making out with Character B, and Character B does not want to make out. Character B separates them, says "no" and Character A stops.
> 
> Any questions, comments, or kudos are always welcome!


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